cruelty has a human heart
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: It has been almost two months since the Empress' murder, and almost two months since the Pendleton twins took Emily Kaldwin to the Golden Cat. The girl is not an obedient prisoner. The twins decide she needs a governess - a nobody who won't threaten their tenuous position. Enter Callista Curnow. For Serindrana!
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **For Serindrana, meine liebschen, who is an absolute star and very dear to my heart. Also on my Tumblr and Ao3 accounts!_

* * *

"Cruelty has a human heart,  
And jealousy a human face;  
Terror the human form divine,  
And secrecy the human dress.

The human dress is forged in iron,  
The human form a fiery forge,  
The human face a furnace seal'd,  
The human heart its fiery gorge."

~ _A Divine Image _by William Blake

* * *

The gloomy pall of mourning had been lifted from Dunwall Tower. Gone were the thick black banners and sombre mood that hung over the Imperial court. The blue and gold colors of the Kaldwin dynasty were replaced by the red and black of the Regent. The serene white marble and stone of the Tower and its surroundings were reinforced with Sokolov technology and metal crafted using Pendleton resources.

The thought did not give Custis Pendleton as much pride as it should have.

He paced outside the Lord Regent's chambers, waiting for the moment when Burrows would call him in. The audience had been organized at very short notice, but the Pendletons were not to be turned down. Especially not if their support was key to the regency.

Morgan had stayed at the Cat, and Custis felt the separation from his twin like a bone-deep ache. He worked the fingers of his left hand – the hand that had been physically joined to Morgan's inside the womb – against his palm, anxiously.

When a Watch guard finally came and announced that the Regent was ready to see him, his patience had already worn thin, leaving his nerves high and tight. He stalked after the guard into Burrows' office, where a maid was setting out the morning tea service. He thought that he recognized her but it was hard to tell; perhaps she was a leftover from Jessamine's reign, some poor servant that he'd cornered and terrorized in a dim hallway during a court function, though why the Lord Regent had kept the old staff on was beyond him.

"Good morning, Lord Pendleton," Hiram Burrows said with a polite incline of his head. "Sit, please," he added, gesturing to a chair opposite his desk.

Custis dragged his eyes away from the girl's thin wrists to flash the Regent a tight smile. He adjusted his frockcoat and sat, crossing his ankle over his knee.

"Tea?"

"No."

"Something stronger, perhaps?"

"No," Custis repeated, unable to help the growl in his voice.

"Very well." Burrows waited until the maid had poured him a steaming cup of tea, then dismissed her. His eyes, suddenly dark and very calculating, followed her form as she retreated to the door. When it shut, he huffed. "_That one_ is a gossip," he murmured. Then he shook his head, took up his tea, and sipped.

"When," Custis hissed, "are you going to bring the girl forward?"

Burrows slowly lowered the cup and pursed his lips. "I beg your pardon?" he asked, lifting a brow.

"It has been almost _two months_," Custis snapped. "When are you going to bring her forward?"

"Forgive me, Lord Pendleton, it seems I've forgotten that I am beholden to your schedule."

Custis clenched a fist, then splayed his hand on his thigh. He drew a sharp, steadying breath through his nose. "My brother and I," he said, voice considerably level, "are _not_ her babysitters. We grow _tired_ of waiting for you to take delivery of her. You told us it would be a _week_ at the most and now–!"

"I did not realize," Burrows interrupted sharply, "that spending your days at that bath house was so taxing."

"I have a fortune to maintain!" Custis snarled. "I have businesses to run – businesses that keep this _damn_ city afloat!" He thought about the metalwork factories that had closed in the last month, how production at the family mines was in a steady decline, how the blockade around Dunwall was preventing more Pandyssians from being shipped in…

"We are _not _her babysitters," he repeated.

"I believe that for the amount of coin I paid you both, you should be whatever I ask of you," Burrows said with a tip of his chin. "I never promised _anything_ about bringing the girl forward so soon. There has been much to do, Lord Pendleton! An entire city to restructure. The plague. Corvo's trial. These things take time–"

"How much _more_ time?" Custis demanded.

Burrows spread his hands. "That's very hard to say."

The lord twisted his lips in displeasure. He didn't like the way Burrows' eyes had narrowed. "Emily is- is _disobedient_. She has _almost_ escaped several times. She talks to the whores! Even _you_ don't have enough coin to buy _everyone's _silence about her," he snapped.

"Obviously, then, you are not doing a very good job at keeping her presence a secret."

"She is going to be the _Empress_ one day," Custis retorted quickly. "What would you have me do, bind and gag her until you see fit to reveal her?" He snorted. "What you _should_ have done, Lord Regent, is killed the little brat along with her stupid bitch of a mother."

Burrows said nothing, but he made a noise deep in his throat.

"This cannot go on ad infinitum," Custis said, suddenly weary. He reached up to rub at his jaw and at least two days' worth of stubble scratched at his palm. "_Someone_ is going to see her. Or she'll escape. And what will happen to your heroic scheme then, _hmm_?"

"Perhaps you should find her a nursemaid, then, since it seems that two grown men are incapable of looking after her."

The jab made Custis tense but he knew better than to make a snappish reply. Now that Burrows was the Regent, things were precarious. He needed Pendleton support in the Parliament and the Pendletons needed what financial incentives he could offer. They were at an impasse, and this irked Custis. At one point he and his brother had been at an advantage, but now…

"A nursemaid won't do anything for her," he huffed, scowling. "She needs _discipline_. Morgan threatened to- it doesn't matter," he said quickly, waving a dismissive hand.

"A governess, then," the Regent supplied, tone lifting suggestively. "Someone to keep the girl occupied. An authority figure." He studied his tea. "She'll need to maintain her lessons anyway. I can't bring forward an Empress who has been without tutors for as long as she has. She'll be unfit to take the throne–"

"If you choose to give it up to her," Custis muttered under his breath.

Burrows stood from his desk, folded his hands behind his back. He looked sleek and elegant in his dark coat. Custis hunched his shoulders as the Regent stared him down. "Make some enquiries, Lord Pendleton," he sighed. "I'm certain there is someone suitable for the role."

"And – what? Am I supposed to keep a _governess_ locked up too?" he snarled in reply.

Burrows lifted a brow. "If it should come to that, then yes. But I will leave the decision to you," he said slowly, inclining his head in a way that Custis supposed was meant to be deferential, but which came off as condescending. He went to a large safe on the wall, opened it, and began to pick out several gold ingots. These he laid out on the desk, along with a few pouches of coin.

"I believe this should be sufficient, don't you?" Burrows asked, cheek wrinkling with a faint smirk.

Custis stared. The gold glinted and the money pouches were fat. He narrowed his eyes. "It will do. For now," he replied levelly. He snatched up the pouches, stuffing them into his pockets. "Have the gold delivered to Pendleton Manor," he instructed, not meeting the Lord Regent's eyes. He knew if he did, he would only see the glitter of triumph – and the predatory knowledge that he had the Pendleton twins in the palm of his hand.

Burrows inclined his head. "And I do hope that you and your brother will manage to attend Parliament this afternoon?" he asked, tone light.

Custis sniffed tartly. "I'm sure we will," he drawled, affecting a disinterested tone. He had the money; he just wanted to _leave_.

"Be sure to polish yourself up, Lord Pendleton. You're looking rather dishevelled today."

"I haven't been home in a _month_!" Custis spat. He could hear his blood roaring in his ears. "_You_ try living at a whorehouse for as long as I have and then we'll see how you look!"

"The rewards for your patience will come in due time," Burrows said cryptically. He waved his hand, long fingers curling. "Someone will show you out, my lord."

Custis spared the gold ingots a final, hungry glance, then left.

Once back in his railcar, he shrugged out of his coat (liking the way the pouches of coin jingled in his pockets) and pulled off his cravat. It was limp and there was a faint stain of something – wine, maybe – on it. He tossed it to the floor of the car and inspected the cuffs of his shirt. They were wrinkled and yellowed with sweat. He wondered if he had enough time to go back to Pendleton Manor and find something clean and crisp to change into before the afternoon session began.

When the car pulled up at the Cat, he gathered his coat and cravat under one arm and stalked inside. Prudence lingered near the front door, chatting up some City Watch guards. Custis emptied half a pouchful of coin into her hand, to cover his and Morgan's food and drink and courtesans for the day, and then asked, "Where is my brother?"

"Upstairs, m'lord, with Sophie," Prudence replied in that crackly voice of hers.

Custis didn't bother asking _which_ room. He knew to just follow the poor girl's screams.

He found Morgan in one of the nicer suites, overlooking a long stretch of the river. The larger twin had his whore on all-fours on the bed, with a thick leather belt looped around her throat. He used the leash to pull her head up at a painful angle while he stood behind her and fucked her, one knee braced on the bed.

Custis could not enjoy the sight of Morgan, naked and glistening with sweat, pumping into the courtesan with the sharp smack of naked skin on naked skin; he was far too anxious about Burrows and the girl upstairs. He threw down his coat and cravat and, ignoring his brother entirely, crossed to the small side table and poured himself some whiskey. He raised the glass to his lips, eyes darting from the balcony doors, spread open wide, to the deep arch of the whore's back, scored with raw, bloody welts where Morgan had whipped her with the belt.

Morgan threw back his head, lips parting with a shuddery exhale. "Whiskey," he demanded through clenched teeth.

Custis rolled his eyes and moved to pour him a glass when Morgan added, "The _bottle_."

"You _idiot_, we have a session this afternoon," Custis snapped, but he did as he was asked.

Morgan took the bottle, wrapped the end of the belt around his hand, shortening the leash, and emptied the whiskey all over the whore's back. She shrieked and writhed as the alcohol burned her welts. She tried to crawl away from him, hands scrabbling at the bedspread beneath her, but he had a firm grip on the belt and held her in place, chuckling darkly.

Custis watched, lips curling appreciatively.

Her screams and her pleas and the panicked twitching of her body excited Morgan, and he came not long after that with an animal growl, pulling sharply on the belt, making her gag and wheeze. When he moved away from her, he unlooped the belt from around her throat and gave her a sharp smack on the flank with the tough leather. "Out," he ordered, slightly breathless.

"And take those blankets with you," Custis added, nose wrinkling as the mingled scent of blood and bodily fluids and alcohol rose in the air.

The whore, doing her best to stifle her sobs, did as she was told. She swept the bed clear, took up her discarded clothing, and left on unsteady legs. Custis cocked his head and watched his twin grin lasciviously after her retreating form. His chest was striped with angry red streaks, no doubt from the her nails as she had (playfully or otherwise) scratched at him.

"Did you enjoy the show?" Morgan drawled, reaching into Custis' waistcoat pocket for his silver cigarette case.

Custis rather liked the flush in his twin's face and the familiar scent of his sweat and the slow, deep pace of his breathing. He brought out his lighter, held up the flame for Morgan, and smirked coldly. "You're an expensive man to sate," he sighed. "That whiskey should have done us for at least another day or so. But _no_, you had to _waste_ it."

Morgan puffed on his cigarette and tossed his head in an attempt to throw a sweaty lick of hair off his forehead. "You enjoyed it," he purred. "Besides, that whiskey was cheap and nasty." Cigarette clamped between his teeth, he began dressing.

The satisfaction on Morgan's face – and the knowledge that some lowly _bitch_ had given it to him – made something twist, painfully, inside Custis' chest. "Go and _bathe_," he growled, lighting his own cigarette. "You _stink _of that stupid slut."

"What the bloody hell is up your ass?" Morgan asked around the cigarette, frowning as he fastened his trousers and plucked his shirt from the floor.

Custis snapped his lighter shut, dragged heavily on the cigarette, then shook his head. "What is _up my ass_ is- is Burrows. And, you know." He jabbed a thumb towards the ceiling. "I _told_ him we were sick of minding the little brat."

"And?"

"And he said that–" Custis cut himself off. He suddenly felt ashamed that he'd let Burrows win – _again_. "He said we wouldn't have to do it for much longer. There are just _things_ to organize, he said, before he'll bring Emily forward and…" He trailed off and waved a hand as if to say,_You know_. He cleared his throat and reached up to brush back Morgan's hair from his temple. "He gave us quite a bit of money this time around. I had the gold sent to Pendleton Manor."

"Fine," Morgan huffed, tapping a wad of ash onto the floor. Talk of money, Custis knew, bored him. And talk of needing to continue to keep Emily Kaldwin at the bath house made him angry.

The twins left the suite and ventured upstairs. Before the Empress' murder, the Golden Cat had a few spacious apartments upstairs, larger than the suites downstairs and meant for extended stays, should a client be so inclined. Now, though, the rooms were the temporary lodgings of the twins. They had demanded nice, expensive furniture and stocks of only the best alcohol and cigars the city could offer.

Hiram Burrows had paid for it all.

Morgan went to the large bathroom to clean himself, and Custis began rifling through his traveling trunks, looking for a fresh shirt and necktie. His and Morgan's shoes, he noted, needed polishing – but there were no servants to do it. One of the whores would have to suffice. He sent down the shoes and a large bundle of laundry, and then sat on his bed, undressed to the waist, and rubbed at his jaw.

He needed to shave. He was usually so meticulous about his appearance and he didn't want to go to Parliament House looking less than put-together. People would talk. They would ask questions. He couldn't have that.

He ordered a basin of warm water and some shaving lather be sent up. The girl who delivered them looked utterly terrified and nearly sagged in relief when Custis told her to _just put them down anywhere and get out_.

With a sigh, he went to the vanity and began smoothing cool shaving lather over his chin and his jaw and the top of his throat. His razor – expensive, pearl-handled – had not been sharpened in some time. He trailed the pad of his thumb over the edge of the blade and decided that he would have to be very careful not to nick himself.

He shaved slowly and meticulously, dragging the blade over his skin and following with a soft brush of his fingertips over the new, smooth flesh. He worked on his jaw, then tidied his sideburns, and then moved under his chin and down over his throat. He rinsed the razor in the basin when it was necessary and, as he swiped the blade over his skin, warm droplets of water dripped down the column of his throat, over his collarbones, down his chest.

Morgan emerged from the bathroom, skin pink and shining, with a towel draped over his hips; Custis dragged his eyes away from his reflection and examined his twin. He was mesmerized – and then Morgan must have sensed he was being watched because his eyes darted up and caught Custis' hungry gaze. He smirked.

"I put out the dark frockcoats," Custis said, speaking awkwardly as he shaved at his upper lip. "They're the ones that look the best."

"You just want us to wear the same thing," the larger twin drawled, flipping through a stack of shirts tossed hastily over a desk.

Custis couldn't help but smile.

* * *

Parliament was in an uproar. Half the House wanted Burrows to step down from the throne and begin consulting the line of succession; the other half supported the Lord Regent – and held out hope that Lady Emily Kaldwin would be found alive and safe.

The Speaker called for order.

Custis stood, straightening the lapels of his frockcoat. A faint smirk slanted his lips as he surveyed his fellow lords. "Hiram Burrows," he boomed, "has the full support of the Pendleton bloc. In these harrowing times, we _need_ the Regent. You," he added, gesturing sharply to the half of the Assembly Hall where Burrows' detractors sat, "wish to see this city in ruins! Dunwall is on the brink of collapse; we have been sealed off by the rest of the Empire, and they are waiting for news of our triumph – or our demise. The Lord Regent is the only one who can restore the city to its prime. Jessamine Kaldwin was far too lenient in her final weeks. She let the power of this great, industrious city wither and fade – and look where we are now! Plague! Riots! Entire districts cut off! The economy is in tatters!"

Morgan stood and joined his twin in addressing the Hall. "What happens when Burrows steps aside? Half of us in here have a claim against the throne! It would take _months_ to unravel the threads of the line of succession. And who knows if we'd even survive that long?" he drawled. He exchanged a knowing glance with his twin. "The Lord Regent is the best thing for this city right now. He represents consistency and strength and the _salvation_ of Dunwall."

"And what of the heir?" someone – Timothy Brisby, Custis realized, seated towards the backbench – called.

"When Emily Kaldwin is found," Burrows said, finally speaking up from the head of the Assembly Hall, "I will be _most _relieved. Until that time though, think of me as the – rightfully elected – caretaker of the throne. Her disappearance is a tragedy, yes, and every day I pray for her safe return. The Empire needs the hope that she represents."

Murmurs of assent went up.

Burrows inclined his head. "I am most grateful for the endorsement from the Lords Pendleton. I promise you all that my desires as the Regent and the needs of the Empire are in perfect alignment. I _refuse_ to step aside when I know that to do so would be to condemn Dunwall to disaster."

There was much shifting around the Hall, with several lords changing their positions and moving to stand with Burrows. The Lord Regent was outwardly very humbled by the display of support, but the twins knew that beneath his polished exterior, he was pleased – wickedly so. Frankly, they didn't blame him.

By the end of the session, it was decided that he would remain on the throne until Emily Kaldwin was found. Any attempt to claim the Empire's highest title would be considered an act of treason, Burrows declared, with much clapping and calls of "hear hear!"

Only a handful remained opposed to the majority, and among them was baby Treavor. Why he had even bothered to attend the afternoon's session was a mystery to Custis. He had about as much political sway as the bench upon which he sat – and it was the _back_bench at that.

He was decidedly silent and sullen-looking. His left arm was in a sling and he wore his frockcoat draped awkwardly around his shoulders. Custis' lip curled. He'd thought that being shot and almost dying might have been enough for Treavor to lock himself in his chambers and never emerge but, _no_, the weedy little prick had made an attempt to regain some _normalcy _in his life. Routine was comforting; no doubt that blighted manservant had a hand in getting Treavor out of the manor, too.

As the lords filed out of the Assembly Hall, the twins followed Treavor. He walked stiffly, the fingers of his free hand curled around the elbow of his left arm. Nobody spoke to him and he made no attempt to engage anyone in conversation. He was, after all, a member of the minority – and he had no power whatsoever. He might as well have been a fixture on the wall.

Morgan nudged Custis with his elbow. They exchanged a smirk and quickened their pace, putting themselves on either side of Treavor, and closed in.

"Baby brother," Morgan drawled, slinging an arm along Treavor's narrow shoulders, "how _are_ you?"

Treavor flinched. His lips twisted as he replied, "Fine."

"How's the _arm_?" Custis crooned, giving his younger brother's elbow an experimental jab.

That elicited a faint hiss from Treavor "F-fine," he mumbled in reply, jerking away from Custis' touch.

"Shall we get a drink in our office?" Morgan asked, already steering Treavor towards the stairs.

When they were alone, Custis shut the door and snapped his fingers at a chair. "Sit," he instructed.

Treavor obeyed, shrugging his coat away. Blinking quickly, he glanced up at his elder brothers. "I'm surprised to see you two here," he muttered. "It's as if you've been swallowed up by the Void."

"Aww," Morgan mocked, "have you been _missing_ us at home?"

"I imagine you rather like it without us there – just you and that old _dog_, Wallace."

Treavor said nothing.

"You're _still_ wearing that sling, I see. Have you been garnering much sympathy with it?" Custis drawled.

Morgan chuckled. "You're walking around like an old war hero," he added.

At that, a hot flush rose in Treavor's cheeks. He glared at the twins. "My arm is- is_ useless_," he snapped.

"Oh, cut it with the dramatics, you _baby_," Morgan sighed with a roll of his eyes. "I'm sure it's not as bad as that. You've had nearly two months to recover."

"I almost _died_!" the younger Pendleton shrilled.

"But you didn't," Custis retorted coldly.

"But I almost did!"

"But," Custis replied slowly, biting off each word, "you didn't. I _could_ have shot you in the head – and believe me, it would have been too easy – but I _didn't_. Be grateful, you snivelling heap of shit."

"'_Be grateful_'?" Treavor mimicked, lips peeling back with a snarl. "H-how dare you? 'Be grateful'? For wh-_AH_!"

Morgan closed his fingers over Treavor's left shoulder, hard. "Don't take that tone with us, you ingrate," he snapped.

"Oh f-fuck, _stop_!" Treavor whined, body twisting and slumping in the chair. Sweat beaded his brow, feet scrabbling on the plush rug. "Stop, Morgan, _puh-please_!" he begged, the fingers of his free hand curling around the larger twin's wrist. His eyes were wide, shining, overbright with terror and pain.

"Are you going to be grateful?" Custis sneered, standing at his twin's side.

"Y-_yes_!" Treavor yelped, as Morgan's thumb pressed down on the mess of scar tissue and bloody bandages and stitches.

"Good," Custis huffed, and Morgan let go.

Panting, suddenly very pale, Treavor hunched forward in his chair, cradling the sling against his chest. He wet his lips and dared to glance at the twins. "Why am I here?" he whimpered. "I certainly can't _offer_ you two anything in the way of political favors."

"What, we can't check on dear little Treavor?" Morgan asked.

"I- I don't know…"

Custis' nose wrinkled as he watched the pathetic excuse for a man that was his younger brother. Cheeks red, bottom lip trembling, skinny chest rising and falling with rapid, panicked breaths. It was almost unbearable to watch, and he had half a mind to kick Treavor out of the office right then and there–

And then he had a thought.

Lips curling with a smirk, he cocked his head. "Dear Treavor," he purred, "do you remember the governess you tried to fuck at Pratchett's little get together?"

Treavor blinked, as though confused. He worked his mouth and frowned. "Governess?" he muttered. "I don't- I don't know what you're talking about."

"She was a live-in tutor for that boy," Morgan supplied.

"I don't remember."

Custis rolled his eyes, moved to the desk, and picked up a penknife. Hefting it threateningly in his hand, he paced towards Treavor. "You were _very_ drunk," he said, smirking.

Treavor eyed the penknife. His throat bobbed against the collar of his shirt as he swallowed. "I- I don't know who you're talking about!" he whimpered. "It was s-so long ago! _Months_, at least!"

Custis leant over his younger brother, one hand fisting his hair and pulling his head back, the other angling the tip of the penknife against his left shoulder. He pressed down with the small blade. Treavor jumped and dry-sobbed.

"Think through the haze, baby brother. I _know_ you remember. She rejected you – vehemently – and you ended up vomiting and passing out in the drawing room afterwards," he murmured slowly.

Treavor's eyes rolled in their sockets. The color had drained from his face, and now he was turning grey. He looked as though he was about to be sick. "I don't- I don't _remember_!" he whined.

Custis pressed harder with the penknife.

Treavor jerked and yelped. "C-something!" he cried. "Her name began with a C!"

"You're going to have to do better than that," Custis purred. With a flick of his wrist, he tore into the silken fabric of Treavor's shirt. "Or maybe I should open your shoulder to help you think?"

"C-_Curnow_!" Treavor screeched.

"Are you sure?" Morgan drawled.

"I-I'm sure, I'm sure," Treavor mumbled, nodding frantically.

Custis huffed and straightened up. He flicked the penknife through his fingers. "Curnow. Why does that sound so familiar?"

"Her uncle is the Captain of the Watch," Treavor wheezed.

"Oh-_ho_," Morgan chuckled. "The bastard who helped put you out on your ass that night, Custis. Do you remember? You asked Jessamine if she wanted you to bend her over the table and give it to her up the ass, and Corvo and that _Curnow_ fellow marched us to the cars and told us we were _banned_ from court."

Custis scowled at the memory of being ejected from the state dinner, then smirked. "Jessamine missed out, that's all I'll say."

Treavor fought against the pathetic trembling of his voice as he mumbled, "You got what you wanted. Can I _go_ now?"

"Yes," Custis drawled. "Get _out_. And stop _sniffling_. You're absolutely pathetic."

Treavor gathered up his coat and raced for the door. He didn't look back.

When the twins were alone, Morgan poured himself and Custis a drink. "What are you thinking?" he asked.

"Burrows said the girl needs a governess," Custis replied with a shrug. He tossed the penknife down onto the desk. "It can't be anybody well-known. It's too risky, and they'll surely be demanding. But the woman who worked for Pratchett – she's a _nobody_." He chuckled and downed half his drink in a single mouthful. "_I_ only remember her because Treavor wouldn't shut up about her on the ride home."

"Captain Curnow's niece is hardly _nobody_, dear brother."

"In the grand scheme of things, dear brother, she _is_ a nobody."


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: **__For meine liebschen, Seri. I don't really know what I'm doing anymore with this thing so I'm mildly panicked about its quality. _

_Also published on my Tumblr and Ao3 accounts._

* * *

Callista Curnow walked quickly down the street, keeping her gaze fixed on the cobblestones. Up ahead was a quarantine checkpoint patrolled by a handful of City Watch guards. A wolfhound – a leanly muscled beast with a too-long snout and flat, pointed ears – paced on the end of a short leather leash. It had been trained to sniff out the plague in those that passed through the checkpoint; if you weren't sick you had nothing to fear, but that didn't stop Callista from tensing and shuddering as the hound turned its nose to her, snuffled at her legs, and then at the package of food tucked under her arm.

There was a street vendor a block or so from her apartment, one of the few still operating in this part of the city, and Callista had purchased some smoked slices of meat, a third of a wheel of cheese, and half a loaf of crusty bread. Her apartment had no facilities for cooking, no stovetop or oven, but she didn't mind. The apartment was _hers_ in every way, missing fixtures and all.

With a grunt, the Watchman tugged the hound away from her and waved her through. She dipped her head in thanks. The Legal District was one of the few places left in the entire city that was untouched by the plague and a part of her was grateful for the guards and the checkpoints.

A part of her was grateful for the wolfhound's keen nose, too, she supposed.

Geoff was on duty at Holger Square for the evening, which meant that Callista would eat alone. Sometimes, she didn't mind. After all, she had elected to live alone (with much protesting on Geoff's part). Sometimes, though, the weight of her loneliness became too heavy, almost suffocating, and she ached for the comfort that Geoff's presence brought her. He reminded her that she had – once, a very long time ago – been part of a family so large that loneliness could never have touched them.

Now, it was just the two of them. Everyone else was gone. They'd stopped talking about the deaths, the empty family homes that had been sold off after each funeral, the urns Geoff kept lined up on shelves as a shrine to Curnows past. But sometimes Callista found herself wondering which one of them would die next, and which one of them would be left behind.

She wondered which one of them would be strong enough to bear it.

Dusk was beginning to fall and the sky was like a bruise, mottled purple and grey streaking overhead. The scent of rain was in the air. Callista liked this part of the day, when everything was still and expectant. She turned into her street.

She glanced up at the passing buildings, mostly blocks of apartments. Some still showed signs of life – lamplight flickering against frosted glass or music drifting out of an open window – but many people had packed up and left Dunwall long before the blockade had been put in place around the harbor.

Callista had begged Geoff, just once, to leave the city. He'd declined. He owed it to the late Empress, he'd said, to set things right in Dunwall. She had never spoken of leaving again.

The shriek of a railcar made her flinch. It rumbled down the street, a hulking grey thing with a narrow slot in the front for the driver to see through and enormous wheels that spat up bright blue sparks as it charged along. The sight of it made her frown. She lived on a narrow backstreet. She had _never_ seen a railcar anywhere but the main streets, where all the major legal offices were.

When the railcar ground to a halt at the end of her block – and directly outside of her apartment building – she paused.

And she waited for whoever was inside the car to step out and conduct whatever business he had in her street. But nobody emerged. The car simply sat there, engine purring.

Callista considered the situation. The very fact that the car had pulled up _right outside_ her building meant that it was not possible to avoid it. One way or another, she would have to walk past it. A dozen potential scenarios flashed in her mind's eye, each more unappetizing than the last, and almost all of them ending in her being dragged into the car.

Slowly, she worked her keys from her pocket into her hand.

And then, drawing a steadying breath, she continued walking along with her eyes fixed on the railcar. As she drew closer to it, she caught the hum of conversation. Male voices. Deep and polished. Her front door was in sight, and she reminded herself that the quarantine checkpoint with the Watchmen and their hound was just around the corner…

She had just climbed up the first few steps leading to the door when someone from the railcar called out to her: "Miss Curnow?"

Slowly, she turned on her heel. A man – his face somewhat familiar – leered at her from the open window of the car. He beckoned her to him with a bend of his index finger, but she remained rooted to the spot.

A second face appeared in the window then, identical to the first in almost every respect, from the high, pale forehead to the snub, upturned nose to the dark hair parted neatly on the side. Both men had mouths that twisted easily with a sneer and eyes that held nothing but coldness and cruelty. She watched them, heads leaning together as they regarded her from the railcar, and then recognition hit her: they were the Pendleton twins, and she had (unfortunately) been on the receiving end of the salacious advances of their younger brother at one of her employer's – _former _employer's, she mentally corrected – social gatherings.

She instinctively hunched beneath their gaze. They had a reputation for treating others as mere morsels to be devoured – or destroyed.

One of the twins, the one who had spoken to her first, gestured a little more impatiently.

"My lords," she said slowly, even going so far as to dip into a quick, shallow curtsey. "What- what can I do for you?"

They seemed to appreciate her deference; their lips curled with identical smirks.

"We'd like to have a little chat with you," answered the second twin, the one whose hair was not quite as neat as his brother's.

"About a job offer," added the first twin, as though to entice her.

Callista shifted her package of food to the crook of her elbow. "I don't believe I'd be interested in any kind of job that you two would have to offer me," she said evenly.

At that, the twins laughed.

"Oh dear, so _sensitive_."

"We don't blame you, though."

"After what that drunken idiot, _Treavor_, did to you."

"You were never in any danger though."

"No, when he drinks like that, he gets – ah – rather _soft_ and _useless_ in certain areas."

Callista flushed, faintly. "We don't need to speak about it, my lords," she muttered in reply. "It was- so long ago."

"Indeed." The door to the car clicked and swung open, and the first twin gestured again. "Don't _worry_," he purred – and the tone of his voice did little to assuage the tight knot of panic that had coiled itself in her chest. "As I said, we only want to talk about a job offer. You _are_ still a governess, yes?"

She fractionally narrowed her eyes. "Yes," she answered. She didn't want to anger them by ignoring their invitation, so she crossed the pavement to the railcar. Its interior was breathtakingly luxurious. The seats were upholstered in what looked like dark red velvet and a side compartment was open, displaying several expensive cut-glass tumblers and bottles of alcohol, some of which (she could see from the labels) were imported.

The twin with messy hair shifted and sat next to his brother, who gestured to the available seat.

"I'd prefer to stand out here, my lords."

"Nonsense. Make yourself comfortable. We _insist_, Miss Curnow."

She considered protesting again but figured that the sooner she complied with their wishes, the sooner the _job offer_ could be made, and the sooner they would leave her alone. She climbed into the railcar – neither Pendleton extended a helpful hand – and settled herself opposite them, keeping her knees tucked to the side and the package of food secure in her lap. The twin nearest the door swung it shut.

She regarded the twins: the messy-haired twin, she could see now, was taller by a slight bit, and a little wider in the shoulders than his brother; they were dressed in almost identical outfits, with matching neckties adorned with bejewelled pins and fine silk hose, though their waistcoats – one a soft dove grey, the other a rich navy blue – set them apart from one another.

In turn, they examined her. Their eyes were cold and appraising as they openly looked her up and down. She did not flinch as they studied her jacket, plain and brown, and her stockings, visibly darned at the knee, and her shoes, scuffed. She wanted to tell them that she hadn't expected a job offer and, had they given her a little more warning, she would have been better dressed.

But something about them – maybe the arrogant set of their mouths or the way they leaned towards one another, as though exchanging silent thoughts – made her refuse to apologize.

"We find ourselves in need of your services as a governess," the messy-haired twin drawled, reaching into his waistcoat pocket for a narrow silver case. He took out two cigarettes, put them both between his lips, and brought out a silver lighter. He held up the small flame to both cigarettes, then jerked his chin at his brother, who reached across and took one with a smirk.

"I–"

_I wasn't aware that you either of you had a child_. _Or, at least, one that you would bother educating_.

The reputations of the Pendletons (the twins and the younger sibling alike) preceded them. They were all notorious womanizers, and had a clutch of bastards floating around the miasma of noblewomen and maids and anybody else unfortunate enough to be coerced into bed with one of them.

Perhaps they'd found need of an heir and had recognized one of their illegitimate children? If that was the case, though, surely they would seek out a governess who had been recommended to them by one of their peers, a governess with experience teaching in an aristocratic home? This – a chance meeting in the street – was hardly suitable for men of their station.

One of the twins chuckled, dragged heavily on his cigarette, and shot a jet of smoke through his teeth. "Well?" he drawled, clearly amused.

"I- I apologize, my lords, but I'm unable to take on new students at this time."

"Oh?" asked the larger twin, lifting a brow.

"Yes. I'm still fully employed by Mr. Pratchett and–"

"Bullshit."

Callista paled.

"Pratchett sent his son and his wife away to Serkonos a month ago, Miss Curnow. You have been without work since then. Right?"

Panic ate into the corners of her eyes, making everything overbright. How did they know? Had they been asking around or- or keeping tabs on her? She shifted in her seat. Her keys were still in her hand, pressing sharply into her palm even through her glove. "I–"

"Lying to me – _us_ – really is abhorrent," sighed the smaller twin. "It implies two things: one, arrogance on your part, and two, that we are_idiots_." He studied the end of his cigarette, head tilting to the side. "But due to the _urgency_ of the situation, I will choose to overlook your little indiscretion."

Her chest was tight beneath the firm lines of her corset. She nodded, weakly.

"So?"

"I am not qualified to teach in a noble home, my lords," she replied, fighting to keep her voice strong and level. "You might be better off asking for a recommendation from your peers."

The larger twin crossed his ankle over his knee. "We don't care. We don't _care_ about qualifications and all that."

"We just need someone who is mildly adept at teaching. Someone who _won't_ be sought after by other families."

Callista frowned. They were in need of a governess, but didn't care about whether or not she was appropriate for the job? They _wanted_ her low profile?

"What are you proficient in?"

She blinked and immediately began ticking a list off on her fingers: "To start, grammar, spelling, sums, as well as literature, geography, basic Abbey law, introductory and intermediate Serkonan, and the basic political structures of all the Isles." She cleared her throat lightly. "I can also teach violin, should you wish–"

"Not necessary, I think," interrupted the smaller twin with a dismissive wave of his hand. The gold of a signet ring glittered on his index finger.

"The, ah, student you'll be teaching will also need lessons in deportment and court etiquette," the larger twin said slowly, exchanging a significant glance with his brother.

"I- I've never had to teach any of my students those sorts of things, but I know a little etiquette and I'm sure I could read up on- on court life," she answered evenly, her expression betraying nothing of the confusion and curiosity roiling inside her. Who was this student that didn't need a highly-qualified governess but who needed to know how to behave in the Imperial court?

"Good," one of the twins sighed. "You'll need to start immediately–"

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to- to think on this offer, Lord Pendleton," she said slowly. "I- I'm still unsure if I should even take this job, knowing that I am not the most ideal candidate."

_And_, she added silently,_ I'm going to need to speak with Uncle Geoff about this_.

Geoff didn't like the twins. The Watchmen he had on duty at the Golden Cat were full of stories of the twins' sadism and ruthlessness. And, he'd told Callista, it was obvious they were living inside the Lord Regent's pocket. Corruption of any sort made Geoff uneasy, but when it went right to the top, there was little that could be done.

The larger twin chuckled through his nose. "You'll be very well paid, Miss Curnow."

"It's not a question of money," she retorted quickly.

"Are you sure? I find that most _any_ question can be solved with the right amount of coin," put in the other twin, smirking.

She didn't like the way they thought she could be bought. Tipping her chin just a little, she said, "This is- highly unusual, if you'll excuse me for being so blunt. I normally expect there to be interviews – and I expect to meet my prospective student first. There is a- a routine that I follow, as anybody else would with any other job offer."

The twins scowled, simultaneously, as though both feeling the same levels of frustration.

"This," growled the larger one, "_is_ the interview. What do you think we're doing, Miss Curnow? Having a chat because we _feel _like it?"

"Meeting the student beforehand is out of the question. She is – what? – ten years old, and she is- well-born, and she has been without a governess for some time. That should be sufficient enough for you."

"Very well," she replied, slowly. "But I respectfully ask that you give me time to consider this offer, my lords. It is a most- generous offer, and I am grateful that you considered me for the role above anyone else." She fixed her gaze on each of the Pendletons in turn. She couldn't deny that the prospect of the money they would offer her wasn't enticing, and this role would certainly raise her profile amongst the other aristocrats…

"But," she continued, "as you so perceptively mentioned earlier, I have been without work for a month and will need to reacquaint myself with a few subjects."

The twins exchanged a glance.

"We won't accept 'no' for an answer, Miss Curnow."

Her blood ran cold at that.

"But we are willing to give you a few days to _reacquaint_ yourself."

She relaxed, shoulders sagging slightly, then she quickly straightened up and inclined her head. "Thank you," she murmured in reply. "I'll- I'll send word to Pendleton Manor when I've made my decision?"

"No," said the smaller twin sharply. He inhaled slowly through his nose. "No. Send a message to our offices in Parliament."

It was an unusual request, but she inclined her head again. "As you wish, Lord Pendleton."

"A few days, Miss Curnow, is all we're going to give you," warned the larger twin.

"I understand," she replied, even though she didn't really.

She made to stand, but the smaller twin quickly leant across her lap and unlatched the door. Smirking at her, he waved her out of the car.

Callista had never moved so fast in her entire life. She jumped out of the railcar, spared the lords a final glance (and a small curtsey), and raced to the front door of her apartment building. She got inside, nudged the door shut with her elbow, then rested her forehead against the wood. The scream of the railcar as it rumbled away made her flinch. She waited until the street outside was silent again, then ascended the rickety staircase to her second-floor apartment.

Once inside, she found room to breathe. Setting aside the parcel of food and her keys, she opened the window and looked out across the street. The scent of rain was stronger than before and, across the slanted rooftops, thick black storm clouds were beginning to roll in.

After the disaster that was Pratchett's little party, she hadn't spared the Pendletons a single thought. Now, they wanted her to play governess to – who exactly? A well-born, ten year old girl. That was hardly sufficient enough, but she hadn't dared to push for more information. Replaying the 'interview' over in her mind, she frowned: they hadn't asked her about any of her past experience, hadn't asked for references – they'd only needed to know what she could teach and had given her a short deadline to accept the offer.

Or, perhaps more accurately, to accept the fact that she was going to be this child's governess whether she wanted to or not.

The thought made her shiver. She looked down at the rails set into the road. How had they tracked her down? Probably through Pratchett, though rumor had it that Custis Pendleton (whichever twin that was) worked closely with Barrister Timsh acquiring land deeds from citizens who had been expelled from their homes – wrongfully or otherwise. Perhaps he'd asked Timsh, or perhaps Timsh had mentioned that she lived in the area…

She shook her head, dislodging the thoughts, and began to unwrap the parcel of food in the kitchenette.

When Geoff next came around for dinner, she would talk to him about the situation. And about the money she could potentially earn. Maybe Geoff – or one of the Watchmen assigned to the Cat – would know something about the child the twins were looking after. She knew what her uncle would say – _no, absolutely not, Callista_ – but she knew, too, that she could convince him; after all, she'd convinced him that she could live alone.

With a small curl of her lips, she considered that she could always reassure Geoff by promising to throw his name around. The twins were corrupt and cruel, yes, but they weren't likely to go up against the Captain of the City Watch. She was smart, though, and – judging by the fact that she had escaped from the Pendletons' railcar without a scratch – she could hold her own against them. The thought made her slightly giddy, even proud.

And then the loudspeaker shattered her reverie with a message from the Lord Regent that any information pertaining to the whereabouts of Lady Emily Kaldwin was to be reported to the nearest City Watch officer without delay.

* * *

When the twins pulled up at the Golden Cat later in the evening, Prudence was waiting for them.

"Oh fuck, what does she want?" Morgan muttered, draining the last of his drink and putting the empty glass in the side compartment.

Custis carelessly rolled his shoulder in a shrug. He unlatched the door, nudged it open with his toe, and had barely got to his feet when Prudence rushed over, her face contorted with rage.

"Get upstairs," she screeched, "_now_."

"I didn't realize we had a curfew, _Mother_," Custis sneered. He waved her aside and climbed out of the railcar. Morgan followed.

Their dismissive attitude infuriated the Madame, who planted herself in their path. Her blackened teeth flashed as she snarled, "That girl tried to set the place alight! She wants to burn down my _entire_ establishment!"

At that, the twins frowned.

"What do you mean?" Custis snapped.

"Just _get upstairs_ and sort her out before I throw her out on her ass!" Prudence growled, circling around them and giving them both a prod in the back with one of her fat, beringed fingers. At any other time, Custis would have whirled around and knocked the old whore to the ground, but talk of Emily made him worried. Usually, Prudence didn't give two shits about the little girl, but to see her so riled up meant that it was important.

The two lords exchanged a glance then ventured inside. Several courtesans and clients had congregated in the lavish foyer, whispering nervously amongst themselves. More than a few pairs of eyes fell onto the twins and Custis quietly challenged each gawker in turn.

There was the faint scent of smoke in the air, and it grew stronger as the twins ascended the stairs to the dormitory. Their eyes watered and their lungs ached. Custis pulled out a handkerchief and clamped it over his mouth and nose. Morgan merely buried his nose in the crook of his elbow.

When they got to the top of the stairs, the first thing they saw were the remains of Emily's cushions and blankets – charred and reeking of lantern oil – heaped in a pile. A handful of whores milled around, some in the stairwell, others hanging in the doorway, as if uncertain.

"What happened up here?" Morgan demanded. His tone made several courtesans visibly flinch.

Custis didn't bother waiting for an answer. He pushed through the throng of thin, half-dressed bodies and made for the door at the end of the narrow corridor. Emily's room was empty. He stared, nose wrinkling beneath the expensive linen handkerchief: the wallpaper was curled and bubbled and black; the floor was littered with shards of broken glass where the lanterns had been smashed – and their oil poured all over the floor; the ceiling was smudged black with smoke; the girl's wax crayons had melted and her drawings were nothing but crumbling flakes; the books that he had brought from Pendleton Manor were charred and curled.

Her doll, Custis noted, was missing. Obviously she had saved it from the fire.

He turned slowly on his heel and paced down the length of the corridor. He glanced into the large room where most of the whores slept on narrow beds crammed close together. He folded his handkerchief over and tucked it away in his pocket. "What," he hissed, "happened up here?"

"My lord," answered one of the courtesans, a girl with black smudged on her hands and arms, and a singed lock of hair in her eyes, "we smelled smoke and those of us who were upstairs saw the–" She hesitated, wet her lips, then continued, slowly: "The girl running away. When we went to her room, it was on _fire_. We- we screamed for help. I- I knew that if we smothered the flames, the fire would die, so I did that."

Morgan cursed violently under his breath. "_Who_ left her _door_ unlocked? She's supposed to be _kept_ inside – and the door is _only_ to be opened to _feed_ her or unless _we_ need to see her!" he spat.

"Yes," Custis agreed, scowling. "Who was the _idiot bitch_ who left her door unlocked?" He regarded each of the whores in turn. Some refused to meet his gaze; others did so, fleetingly, looking somewhere over his shoulder.

"Well?" Morgan snapped.

"And where is she now?" Custis added.

Two of the courtesans retreated into a smaller room and pushed Emily into the hallway. She fought and screamed and kicked. Her clothing was streaked with black. In her little hand, she clutched her doll so tightly that Custis was sure the stuffed arm would fall off. She had been crying, her tears cutting a clean line through the soot smudged on her cheeks.

He lunged and grabbed her by the wrist, dragging her towards him. "So," he purred, "the little arson didn't escape after all. What a shame." Fingers curling tightly around her wrist, he hauled her down the corridor to her ruined room. He yanked on her arm and she staggered forward, shoes catching on the blackened floorboards.

"Don't you appreciate what we've given you?" he demanded, shaking her. "_Hmm? _You mustn't, or else you wouldn't have tried to _burn the place to the ground_."

"I _hate_ it here!" Emily screamed, face reddening. "I _HATE_ it here! I want to _leave_! I want to go _home_!"

"Shut up!" Custis growled, shaking her again. "You don't have a _home_ to go to. Not anymore."

Morgan, meanwhile, demanded to know who had foolishly let the girl escape. Nobody was speaking, though, which enraged him. He backhanded one of the courtesans so violently that she fell to the floor. She didn't bother getting to her feet; she merely curled up and whimpered.

"Someone had better answer me," Morgan growled. He jabbed the courtesan roughly in the chest with the toe of his shoe, then brought his foot down on her throat. He pressed hard, bracing his elbow (and most of his weight) on his knee. He leered down at her. "That _someone_ is going to be _you_. Do you understand?" he breathed.

She wheezed, fingers curling around his ankle in desperation.

"Who. Let. The girl. Get. Out." He pressed down so hard with his foot that the courtesan gagged.

"Stop it!" Emily cried. She pulled against Custis' grip. "Stop it! Don't hurt anyone!"

"How _sweet_," Custis sneered. "You had no qualms about burning these stupid bitches to death but now, suddenly, you don't want to see them hurt?"

Emily continued to pull against his grip, screaming and crying for Morgan to stop. "I-it was me!" she shrilled. "I-I learned how to keep the door open! It wasn't anybody's fault! It was _me_!"

"How do you mean?"

She sniffled and trembled, then set her face with a pugnacious little scowl. "Promise me you won't hurt anybody!" she said, voice surprisingly hard.

"_You_," Custis growled, hackles rising, "do not get to make demands of _me_." He looked to Morgan and nodded, and the larger twin jammed his heel into the column of the courtesan's throat. Her eyes bulged.

"I said _stop it_!" Emily cried. "Don't hurt her! She didn't do anything! It was _me_! I-I broke the lock on the door so it wouldn't work!"

Custis cocked his head at the little Empress-to-be. Her eyes were wide and shining, her bottom lip trembling. His lips curled, coldly. "You're_lying_," he drawled. "You're lying _and_ you're ungrateful. It's a combination that I don't appreciate." He pulled her down the corridor, past the group of courtesans who could only watch as Morgan crushed the throat of the unfortunate girl who'd caught his attention.

Prudence met him in the stairwell. "Someone came down and told me your brother is _killing_ one of my girls!" she snapped.

Custis extracted a few coins of fifty from the pouch at his hip. He passed them to Prudence with a smirk. "This should cover it, right?" he replied.

The Madame turned the money over in her hand, eyes flicking to Emily. "That's- that's not the point," she huffed, but she pocketed the coin all the same. "It's hard to recruit new girls, what with most of the city in lockdown…"

"Then," Custis drawled over his shoulder, already halfway down the stairs with Emily at his side, "_you_ stop Morgan."

He just caught the way Prudence paled – even beneath the heavy spots of blush she had painted onto her sallow cheeks – and then he and Emily were out of sight. Away from the other courtesans, he let his rage flow freely. He gripped the girl by the collar of her shift and hauled her down the stairs, barking at her to _be silent or else_ as she screamed and cried and kicked at him.

Once, she whacked him in the shoulder with her doll and he slammed her into the wall, making her squeal and sob.

"W-where are you taking me?" she whimpered, flinching as he bared his teeth at her.

"You can't stay upstairs," he snapped in reply. "And you need to be _punished_ for being an insolent little brat."

"W-where are you t-taking me!?" she demanded again, unable to help the shiver in her voice.

"I think a few hours in the basement should help remind you of your place here, hmm?"

Emily hugged her doll to her chest, shoulders heaving with soft, hiccupping sobs.

Custis dragged her down the stairs to the VIP entrance. _Very Important Person_ was, of course, code for anybody who couldn't be seen partaking of the particular pleasures of the Golden Cat, and so the door opened onto a dank, narrow alleyway frequented by thugs and gang members and hemmed on all sides by towering brick buildings. The ground was slick with rainwater and, on the sides of the surrounding buildings, water gushed from drainpipes in thick rivulets.

The basement of the Cat had been converted into a makeshift cellar, stocked with barrels of wine and whiskey that Burrows had bought for the twins. Custis unlocked the door using the master key Prudence had had cut for him; what faint light spilled inside from the alleyway illuminated the large shapes of the barrels, as well as the crates of tinned food.

He gave Emily a sharp shove between the shoulder blades and she stumbled forward, hunching.

"P-please," she whimpered, turning on her heel, "I-I'm _sorry_. I'll be good. I won't try to escape again."

"Good," Custis said simply. He waved her forward.

She shook her head. "Please don't l-lock me in here! I hate the dark! It- it _scares_ me!" she cried.

He thought about taking her little doll away but decided against it. Without saying anything more, he gave her another sharp shove in the shoulder, locked the door, and returned upstairs to the dormitory.

Morgan had, evidently, let up on the whore he'd been choking. She, and everybody else, was gone from the corridor. Several of the dorm rooms had their doors shut. The twins went to Emily's ruined room.

"Where is she?" Morgan asked, toeing at shards of broken glass.

"The basement," Custis replied, nose wrinkling against the acrid air. "I think- I think I'll leave her in there for a few hours." He sighed and rubbed at his jaw.

"What if she opens holes in the barrels and drains out all our drink?"

"She won't. She's utterly terrified." Custis chuckled. "I think you threatening to crush that whore's neck did it."

"I didn't _threaten_ it," Morgan drawled in reply, lifting a suggestive brow. "I _did_ it. Prudence had a couple of Watchmen take her body out the back to dump in the river whilst you were playing _disciplinarian_."

Custis rolled his eyes. "No doubt we'll never hear the end of _that_," he sighed.

Morgan shrugged. "All I wanted was a simple answer. If they don't want to do as I ask, there are going to be consequences," he replied. He yawned, clearly bored.

"Come on, then," Custis muttered. "They're going to have to clean all this up and get her some new bedding, too."

The twins turned from the room but Custis had a sudden thought. He inspected the lock on the door and found that one of Emily's crayons had been stuffed into the faceplate of the latch bolt, jamming it. He worked a finger inside the small gap, clearing out the mashed crayon, and then checked that the door could, in fact, be locked again.

"This is getting out of hand," he muttered, gesturing for Morgan to follow him to the stairwell. They walked slowly, ensuring to stay on the same level as they spoke. "I didn't realize she would be so _defiant_."

"Can you blame her?" Morgan asked, lifting an empty hand.

"No. But- but you'd _think_ the fight would have been knocked out of her by now. If I thought I could get away with it, I'd just get _rid_ of her. But–"

"But?"

"But I don't trust Burrows not to throw us to the wolves." Custis sighed and pulled his fingers through his hair. "Everything is so _precarious_, I can't stand it. I don't know _what's _going on and he keeps telling me that he'll come for Emily when it's the right time but _when_ will it be the right time?"

"Chin up, brother," Morgan said, clapping him on the shoulder. "You worry too much."

Custis rolled his eyes. "And you," he replied, not quite having the heart to brush Morgan's hand away, "don't worry _enough_, which is so very typical of you."

Morgan grinned.

The twins returned upstairs to their apartments to dine. Afterwards, they reclined in plush armchairs and smoked imported Cullero cigars. Custis was fascinated by the shadows on Morgan's face – beneath his eyes and his chin and the slope of his cheekbones – as he turned his head in the lamplight. He watched his twin take up his glass of brandy, swirl it with a flick of his wrist, then drain it. And as he watched Morgan's throat, bare since he had removed his necktie and opened the collar of his shirt, he felt a stab of longing deep inside his chest.

"Do you think the Curnow woman will take the job?" Morgan drawled, setting his empty glass aside. His eyes were dark and shone like a predator's in the dim light of the sitting room, and Custis was thankful for the lack of light because otherwise Morgan might have seen the faint flush that crept into his cheeks and bled right down into the collar of his shirt – only half of which was the result of the wine they'd had with dinner.

"I don't know," he replied, inspecting the glowing end of his cigar with a sniff tart. "She seemed rather interested today."

"But if she says no?"

Custis shrugged. "I doubt she will. And if she does…" He dragged heavily on his cigar and shot a stream of smoke through his teeth. "Well, the girl _does_ need a governess and I really can't be bothered trawling the city for an alternative."

"Curnow's niece won't disappear easily."

"On the contrary, dear brother," Custis replied with a faint smirk. "In the current state of affairs, I rather think the resources of the City Watch are stretched. And people go missing every day. What's one more? It's not as if she's _important _to anybody. Captain Curnow, yes, but other than that, nobody will miss her…" He trailed off, turning over his hand with a shrug.

"Yes, well, I just don't think it's wise to keep _two_ people here against their will," Morgan muttered.

Custis chuckled. "I was mistaken earlier, it seems. You _do_ worry, Morgan. How _touching_."

"Shut up. Shouldn't you go down and get the girl?"

"I suppose so," Custis sighed. He inspected his pocket watch. Emily had been in the basement for near four hours now. He set his cigar aside in an enamelled ashtray, stood, and stretched.

"Good luck," Morgan drawled loudly as Custis made for the door.

He descended to the basement without running into anybody. Outside, the alleyway was almost completely dark, save for a thin veil of moonlight which washed over the brickwork. Custis took his time unlocking the door. He didn't bother lighting a lamp, merely snapped his fingers and said, "Come on, then."

There was sniffling and gentle shuffling and then Emily Kaldwin materialized from the darkness. She moved slowly and stiffly, taking tiny steps and keeping her doll clutched closely to her chest. She blinked, frantically, even in the dim illumination in the alleyway. When she saw Custis standing there, she flinched and ducked her head.

"Come _on_," he repeated. "Unless you'd rather sleep down here?"

"N-no," she mumbled quickly.

He extended a hand which she took, hesitantly. He gently tugged her along as he led her back upstairs.

"I'm hungry," she said, speaking into her doll's hair.

"You'll get something to eat when you're back in your room."

She trembled and sniffled and only tripped once going up the stairs.

Custis heard the tell-tale hum of conversation as they neared the dormitory. He slowed, cocked his head, and detected the distinctive gruff tones of Thaddeus Campbell. Scowling, he paused.

"What's wrong?" Emily asked, voice thin.

He clenched his jaw. "The High Overseer is here," he muttered in reply.

She wrinkled her nose. "I _hate_ that man," she hissed.

Custis glanced down at her and couldn't help but smirk. He was no fan of Campbell either. The man was growing decidedly careless with his 'visits' to the Golden Cat. Whereas they had once been rare, and conducted under the pretence of investigating claims of witchcraft in the area or whenever a girl had died, now he was making weekly trips to the bath house. Everybody knew he was corrupt and regularly broke the Strictures, but his presence drew unnecessary attention to the Cat (and especially to the dormitory, where he dropped in occasionally to check on Emily).

And unnecessary attention was _dangerous_.

Custis had other, more personal reasons for being wary of the High Overseer, and of the Abbey in general. When he had turned thirteen or fourteen and his love for Morgan had grown dark and possessive and consuming, he'd been worried: his need for his twin frightened him in its intensity, and he knew, deep down in his heart, that it was _wrong_. It was wrong because Morgan didn't show him nearly the same level of attachment, and it was wrong because nobody else understood, and it was wrong because it drove him _mad_ with anger and jealousy.

He had felt alone and scared, and he'd turned to the Abbey for help. When he and his twin had been younger, their governess had insisted on them learning the teachings of the Abbey. Stories about the Outsider had stuck with Custis because of the way they explained irrational, abnormal behaviour in a way that seemed to absolve the victims of the Outsider's favour of responsibility – they were simply the toys for the chaotic _whims _of the deity and nothing more.

He thought he'd found the answer, but when he'd investigated the cure for the corrupting influence of the Outsider, he was told that the Abbey had many methods to banish the eldritch deity's power from a mortal.

_Fire cleanses an impure soul_, the overseers had said.

That had been enough to drive him away from the Abbey forever. He'd never gone to another service, had never picked up another copy of the Strictures, and had never _ever_ spoken of his nightmares about being _cleansed_ by the Abbey to anybody.

Not even Morgan.

Now, listening to Campbell talk, he bristled. "Come on," he muttered, giving Emily's hand a sharp tug.

"W-where are we going?" she whimpered.

"I don't want to run into Campbell," he replied coldly. "We're going to wait until he leaves."

She said nothing, and let him lead her into one of the smaller suites downstairs. There was a bowl of fresh fruit on the side table and he gestured lazily. "There. Have something to eat."

"Fruit?" she questioned, nose wrinkling.

"For _now_," he growled.

She plucked a handful of grapes from a thick, shining bunch, and then sat on the floor, crossing her legs and keeping her doll tucked in her lap.

Custis went to the window and looked out across the fat curve of the Wrenhaven River, and the twinkling lights of the distant buildings. "We've found you a governess," he said, not bothering to turn and look at her.

"A- a governess?" she echoed slowly, her voice slightly distorted by the grapes.

"The Lord Regent has insisted."

"I don't _want_ a teacher."

"Would you rather sit in that room day in, day out, staring at the wall?"

"I don't want to do lessons."

He turned around and lifted a brow.

Emily threw away the rest of the grapes with a huff. "If you bring me a governess, I'm going to tell her everything," she said, voice as low and threatening as she could make it. "I-I'm going to tell her who I am, and that you and your brother kidnapped me."

"And _what_," Custis drawled, "do you think that will accomplish?"

"She'll take me away from here," she replied, tipping her little chin defiantly.

"Hardly," he snorted. "The governess will work for _us_, not _you_. She will do as _we_ say and she won't be so foolish as to take you away like some _hero_ out of a _storybook_."

"I'm the Empress," Emily retorted with a small scowl. "_Everybody_ works for _me_."

"Not this time, my dear," Custis sighed. "For the right amount of coin, this governess will come here and teach you and that is _all_." He stood over her, a sneer curling his lips. "Do you remember the courtesan my brother hurt earlier? The one you _begged_ to save?"

The color drained from Emily's face and she nodded, weakly.

"That is what will happen to the governess if you _don't_ behave. Do you understand? When you are disobedient and petulant, people get hurt. They get _hurt_ because of you." He cocked his head, voice dropping to a purr. "You don't want that, do you? You don't want _another_ death on your hands?"

"Another..?" she squeaked, clutching tightly at her doll. She squeezed her eyes shut and quickly shook her head, strands of dark hair flapping around her pale cheeks. "N-no. I don't w-want that."

"Then you'll be _good_ for the governess and you'll do your lessons _properly_ and you _won't_ make any overtures to her about running away, will you?"

"N-no…"

His lip curled. "Good. I'm so pleased you understand."

He gave it another fifteen minutes before he took Emily to the dormitory. Thankfully, Campbell was gone. Two of the whores were crying in the hallway but knew to incline their heads and murmur "Good evening, Lord Pendleton" as he passed them with Emily in tow.

Her room smelled only faintly of smoke. The ruined wallpaper had been removed and there was a plush new rug on the floor, covering up the blackened floorboards. There was a new set of lanterns on a spindly little table, and a fresh collection of plush pillows and blankets heaped in the far right corner.

Emily wordlessly extracted her hand from Custis' and stepped into the room. She sniffled and then looked at him over her shoulder. "What about my dinner?" she asked slowly.

"I'll tell someone to bring it up to you," he answered.

She nodded.

"I don't think I need to tell you _not_ to set anything alight?"

She shook her head.

"Good."

He turned to go, then paused and pulled out his handkerchief. He snapped his fingers at her and she turned to him. He crouched and began wiping her cheeks clean of soot and tears. She flinched and shied away from him but he merely clucked his tongue and pinched at her chin, holding her head still.

"Stop _crying_," he admonished.

She bit down on her bottom lip to stifle her whimpering.

When he was satisfied that her face had been sufficiently cleaned, he folded his handkerchief away and locked her in the room. He tested the door knob and his lips curled in relief when it did not give. On the way out of the dormitory, he ordered one of the whores to bring Emily dinner.

"And _if_ you leave the door open and let her escape," he warned coldly, "you're going to end up dead and dumped in the river, too. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Lord Pendleton," she replied quickly, dipping her head.

Custis returned to the apartments. Morgan was still in his armchair, a fist balled against his temple. He looked up at the sound of Custis' footsteps.

"How's the alcohol in the cellar?" he drawled. "Intact?"

"Intact." Custis settled himself beside his brother and picked up his cigar.

Morgan wordlessly opened his lighter and lifted it up for Custis.

Custis watched the small, wavering flame and then locked eyes with Morgan. Cigar clamped between his teeth, he gently grabbed the outstretched wrist and guided the flame to the end of his cigar. He could feel his twin's pulse twitching against the fine bones and tendons. He smirked, ferally, and Morgan mirrored him.


End file.
